


I'm Smitten, I'm Bitten, I'm Hooked

by exposeyou



Category: British Comedian RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-18
Updated: 2010-10-18
Packaged: 2017-10-12 18:22:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exposeyou/pseuds/exposeyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Idol, inspiration, arch-nemesis, wank fantasy, it's all the same thing, isn't it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Smitten, I'm Bitten, I'm Hooked

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from _Why Can't I Be You ?_ (what else?) by The Cure

Russell Brand had drink, sex and drugs to tear himself apart with.

Jack Whitehall had Russell Brand.

Friends were always offering him tickets to his shows. He always politely declined, to their bemusement. There was no way he could watch _him_ on stage surrounded by thousands of people.

He’d never actually seen him live; in fact, he made a deliberate effort to avoid being in the same places as Russell, which wasn’t as hard as it sounds, because they were hardly similar levels of celebrity, but he had slipped up a couple of times.

The first time he saw him, it was the NME awards, years ago, before he had made that decision. Before he even knew who Russell was, really. Jack was still a teenager, and had scored a ticket to the show through being well-‘connected’ and eager to please. He knew that he wanted to be a comedian, but his plans were half-formed, vague, ethereal things. Then he watched that man on stage, and felt sick.

Everything he’d planned to be, which, granted, was not much at that point, was looking back at him from that stage. He felt self-conscious about his skinny jeans and black, pointed boots. He heard his own verbose, overblown vocabulary coming out of someone else’s mouth, and his lanky, loose movements could have been in a mirror.

He felt sick. He’d faked a stomach ache, and left. He still doesn’t know what he did afterwards, except he woke up in a hotel room with a guy asleep, still half-dressed in black tie. He found his jeans thrown in the bath-tub (it looked like marble), and when he caught sight of himself in the mirror, his hair was sticking up like a scarecrow’s (like _his_ ) and his lips were swollen, as if he’d been bitten.

He got out of there as quick as he could.

The next time he saw Russell in the flesh he’d had time to obsess over him properly. A few years of trying to make a name for himself, of everyone pointing out the bloody similarities, until he was making jokes over it.

It was some industry party, he was actually pretty excited about being there. He hadn’t had time to get blaise and jaded about things like that (he still hasn’t. He still gets butterflies in his tummy at meeting famous people, and he thinks he always will) so he was overly conscious of trying to play it cool. He’d been doing quite well, actually. He’d made small talk with a couple of people, then had moved on to standing on the gallery. He was posing with a Champagne flute in one hand, the other resting on the railing, stood at an angle that he knew showed off his lithe limbs. He was feeling pretty good.

Then, like some fucking modern-day, gothed-up whirling dervish, Russell walked in. Jack was glad that he was removed from the main party, because no-one could see him grimace. As Bob Geldof had said, ‘Russell Brand, what a cunt’.

Jack could see everyone fawning over him, see him charming every waitress, teasing every executive bigwig.

He couldn’t stand him. He wished he had that confidence.

He stayed where he was, leaning on the bar, not at elegant repose now, but watching intently. He watched the way he worked the room, god he looked effortless, like he didn’t even have to try.

Jack bit his lip. Bastard.

He’d had enough of watching, was about to go to find another drink, when he saw a change in Russell’s demeanour. He couldn’t have told you exactly what it was, just that he went from being calm, relaxed, and at ease, to focussed, sharp.

It made him think of his cat back at home, with his parents. You’d be playing with her, and she’d seem to be made of liquid, soft and flowing, then she’d hear something, a mouse perhaps, and her whole body would stiffen, change to black iron, and she would stalk off, leaving you forgotten.

That was exactly what Russell did – stalk – like some oversized big cat. His velvet blazer could’ve been fur, and his leather trousers went from being rock-star-ish to a primal second skin. He prowled through the crowd, and it seemed to Jack that they parted before him like the sea.

Then he was at the far wall, next to a blonde girl in a white a dress. They looked like negatives, and he was kissing her hand, over the top and theatrical. She laughed, and Jack felt a lump in his throat. He knew that he was pretty, yes, but he was still so awkward with girls, and this _idiot_ , dressed like a fucking dandy scarecrow, they flocked to him.

He looked down and saw his knuckles white against the black railing. He grabbed another glass of Champagne from a passing waiter, and when he looked back down at the little tableau, Russell’s lips were on the nameless girl’s neck.

He took a sip, well, a gulp really, dammit, he drained the whole glass.

He had one hand on her hip and another in her hair, and looked like he was trying to inhale her. Jack thought of himself, smoking for the first time at fourteen and trying not to choke. The girl was out of sight, almost, he could just see her white hands on Russell’s waist.

He wasn’t jealous.

He realised for the first time that he was achingly hard. His face flushed. How had he been so caught up as to lose awareness of his own body?

He’d grabbed his jacket, slung over a chair, and got out of there.

Six minutes later, and he was coming over his hand in a locked toilet cubicle.

Yeah, Jack couldn’t stand Russell Brand.


End file.
